


“I love you. Please... Please don’t go.”

by orphan_account



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: And Just A Sprinkling of Smut, Angst, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt, Jacob’s Kept Rook For Too Long, John Does Not Like This One Bit, Over Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Really Just A Whole-Ass Helping of Angst, Rescue Mission, Smut, With An Equal-Sized Side of Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Taken from the angst/fluff prompt list - 1. “I love you. Please... Please don’t go.”Rook’s taken a three-week break from being The Savior of Hope County, putting that title on the shelf and switching it out for The Doctor of Holland Valley’s Ex-Baptist. But she’s taken good care of him, patching up all his boo-boo’s and nursing him back to full health.So, logic dictates that she gets back out there to finish what she started and retake The Whitetails for Eli and his militia and put an end to Social Darwinistic PowerPoint slides, once and for all.But John doesn’t like this. No, John does not like this at all. Not. One. Bit.TL:DR - John goes to rescue Rook from Jacob and those fucking trials.





	“I love you. Please... Please don’t go.”

Rook has to leave, to take care of the war that’s brewing in The Whitetails, to try and prevent as many casualties in the process.

Jacob included.

The Henbane River’s been liberated, as has Holland Valley - if the handsy baptist nestled against her side, clutching her like the clingy offspring of a spider monkey and an octopus, is any indication. 

Right now, as they’re in bed, relaxing and catching their breaths after a particularly delectable session of extracurricular activities that’d render them sore by morning, she brings up the subject that had been nagging at the back of her skull for the last three weeks, nonchalantly mentioning that she’ll be leaving the ranch in a few days to head out for Big Brother’s territory, so casually that it‘s like she’s talking about the weather forecast for the week as opposed to walking into the last (and, of the three when they were all under siege by a Seed, most dangerous) militant region in Hope County.

The reaction is instantaneous.

There’s a flash of panic -  fear \- in John’s eyes, tangible terror taking root in his being at the thought of her leaving. 

“No.  No, no, no. You can’t. Faith -  Rachel \- was a small piece on the chessboard. I was hardly any bigger. But Jacob? He isn’t a chess piece - he‘s the grandmaster, just as Joseph is, but he isn’t anywhere near as lenient or patient or forgiving as Joseph. Rachel and I might be alive, but he thinks you’ll turn at any minute. He believes you’ll kill Joseph when - if - you kill him. He isn’t going to pay any heed to Joseph’s agenda about not harming you, Rook. He’ll kill you. That can’t happen. You can’t do that to me. I just got you. I love you. Please... Please don’t go.”

God, the way he clutches at her is like she’d said that she’d douse herself in a liter of gasoline and drop a match for the sake of fun.

Something that had been foreign, unfamiliar -  take care of him, reassure him. comfort him \- tears through her chest, cutting up her heart from the inside like jagged pieces of glass has her tenderly cupping his cheeks between her weathered palms, kissing the messy bunch of folds of his brow, telling him that, if everything goes according to plan, she won’t be gone for longer than a month.

These feelings have gone from nameless to unspoken, steadily evolving into what she believes to be concern, anxiety and a third harsh, intense feeling that’s too intimate for someone like her to experience, that claws at the sliced-up shards of her heart mercilessly anytime John devolves into a mess of despair, anger or hurt.

He doesn’t take this well, asks what happens if everything  doesn’t go according to plan.

Rook doesn’t acknowledge this with a verbal answer - rather, tugs off the last remainder of her past that‘s been dangling from her neck for twelve years.

Her dog tags.

“This…”

She reaches for his hand, curls the chain around his fingers, nestles the cool tags in the dip of his palm, lays a kiss to his trembling knuckles.

“Take care of ‘em for me until I get back, yeah?” 

•

John‘s had enough.

It’s been  six weeks since she’s left, fifteen days since he’s last heard from her when she promised to check-in twice a day (the days that she wasn’t trapped in a cage, that is, and even then, she may have stealthily pickpocketed the phone of someone she’d culled during a trial and texted, from an unknown number, that she’s doing okay and to please not burn the ranch down by trying to do something and he’s one hour away from losing his fucking mind.

Jacob’d answered his first phone call, by the second ring, something that never fails to warm John’s heart because his eldest brother doesn’t say so with his words, but with his actions that he cares.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hello to you too, brother. Holland Valley misses their deputy... Have you seen her?”

A pause, which is accompanied with a low, amused chuckle.

“Of course.”

John doesn’t want to read into that, but he finds it incredibly hard not to, instead asks, “Where is she, Jacob?”

“Don’t worry, John... I’ll make a soldier out of her yet.”

•

Jacob promptly ignores John’s following calls and messages, stoking an ember that’s ruptured into an inferno by the time he gets to the forsaken mountains.

•

He bursts through the gates of the veteran’s center with hellfire in his chest, a heinous roar tucked beneath his Adam’s apple, something that he was saving for his darling brother because  that’s precisely what he wants, isn’t it? 

To cull the herd, to have people revert to their baser instincts, to unleash the beast hiding underneath the person’s suit? 

A role that initially had John scoffing because that was what separated them from such animals - rational thought - he finds himself devolving into without a grain of hesitance.

He stalks the grounds of the cages, finds all of them emptied, but there’s one with a notorious denim jacket - what was left of it, anyway - near the locked door, that John reaches for and feels his stomach plummet through the ground at the blood staining the material. 

She’s in a trial.

Of course, Jacob has her in those fucking trials. 

“I’ll make a soldier out of her yet.”

The words burn like acid in his ears and linger like poison in his chest. 

•

“John, what are you doing?”

Jacob’s voice is insistent, angry, crackling against his hip. 

He has half a mind not to answer, because his brother treated him as such, there’s no reason not to reciprocate with crippling silence, but this red maze of deadly quiet and plentiful viscera isn’t the most welcoming of areas, so he opts to entertain his brother. 

For now.

“What does it look like, Jacob?”

“John, get out of there. Now.”

“I’m not leaving without her. Do you not realize what you’ve done? What you’re tinkering with? You play these mind games with broken marionettes, Jacob, which is all well and good - I certainly have no place to judge - but she is not a brainless puppet. She’s been through this before. She has a tolerance for this  ’conditioning’.

I won’t let you ruin what few threads of humanity she has left, that she’s clinging to with everything she’s got. Believe it or not, they’re what saved me, what saved Faith—  Rachel.  And they’re what will save you, too.” 

“John—“ 

He hurls his radio against the wall, satisfaction pooling in his gut at the explosion of plastic and wires against concrete.

That‘s enough of that.

Time to find his deputy and bring her home.

•

He feels like he’s been wandering through this place for hours.

But he won’t stop until he finds Rook.

Only, when he does, he doesn’t even recognize her.

The skeletal frame that lunges at him from the darkness doesn’t register until they’ve pinned him up against the wall.

God, has it only been six weeks?

She looks  cadaverous.

Sunken eyes, gaunt cheekbones, skin stretched tight over withering muscles.

He‘s going to kill Jacob. 

How could he do this to her? 

How could he  torture, abuse, neglect her like this?

What troubles him most, makes nausea take root in the pit of his stomach, crawl up the pipes of chest, threaten to take hold of his throat is the cold, empty look in her eyes.

“... Rook?” 

And just like that, she freezes.

Before she’s stumbling off of him like his touch alone scalds her, and that wounds him more than any knife or bullet.

“No.  No, no, no. Not you. You can’t be...  It can’t be you...”

“Rook, easy—“

“What the fuck, Jacob?!” She screams, staring up at the ceiling, liquid venom in her eyes, dripping from her mouth.

“Is this your endgame?! You want me to kill John?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

“Rook, listen to me—“

“Sounds just like him, Jacob...  You sick fuck.” 

“Rook—“

“Do you not know how much he loves you? How much he loves Joseph? He walked out on his fucking life - his name, his career, a successful life reaped through the seeds of agony and suffering to be with you. 

He never stopped looking for you. He dropped everything just to see you again.  He wanted his family back. The family that‘d love him completely and absolutely. 

And he deserves it... He deserves that and so much more. He deserves respect, praise, love - for all the things he’s done, for all the things he’s overcome, for all the things he’ll do... What the fuck’s wrong with you?“

John doesn’t realize tears are streaming down his cheeks until they’re soaking into his beard, burning his skin, dredging pitiful noises from his throat.

“R-Rook...”

“I’m done... If this means I’m weak, so fucking be it. Cull me. Kill me. Feed me to your fucking wolves. I’m not killing him. I won’t. I... I’ve lost too much already.” 

She huddles into a ball, knees tucked up against her chest, hands clawing at her ears to drown out the song, to make it  stop. 

John crawls into her space, fitting himself between her legs, fingers tenderly untangling hers from the sides of her skull.

“Darling, look at me.  Please.” 

She doesn’t. 

He doesn’t think she can. 

Regardless, he takes hold of her face, cupping her cheeks in his palms, rests his forehead against hers in the one affectionate gesture he knows.

“Sounds so much like him...” 

Rook laughs weakly, tears slipping out of the corners of her eyes. 

“That’s because it  is me, sweet girl. Listen to my voice. Feel my heart beneath your fingertips.” 

She makes a broken sound when he reaches for her hand, like it’s too much but John doesn’t think it’s enough, holds her palm against his chest, though he doesn’t know if it’s helping because it’s thundering against his ribs like it just might break free from the cage of bone.

“Look just like him, too...” 

Rook’s voice cracks, squeezing her eyes shut, like she’s looking at a mirage that’s too good to be true but she’s sick of finding that the oasis in the desert was bone-dry. 

“Can’t... I can’t... I won’t...” 

“I’m here. I’m right here, sweet girl. I’ll never leave you.” 

Within a minute, that damned song stops playing and just as the last note reverberates throughout the blood-splattered concrete hell, Rook slumps - as limp as a rag doll - in John’s arms.

“R-Rook? Darling, d-don’t do this to me. O-open your eyes. Rook?  Rook!”

•

John doesn’t spare Jacob as much as a fleeting glance when he storms out of those fucking trial rooms. 

Jacob doesn’t say as much as a grunt.

A few of Jacob’s men wait for him by his car.

He doesn’t acknowledge any of them, not until he and Rook are in the backseat, with her nestled in his jacket, cradled in his arms, John softly carding his fingers through her hair, tangled and matted with dried clumps of blood (he desperately prayed that none of it was hers). 

•

“Feed her soup and crackers for the next few days. She hasn’t eaten in a while. Only major injury was a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Clean entry and exit. Clean it out and bandage it up. Rest are scrapes and bruises, a few knife wounds. Ain’t deep enough for stitches.” 

John wants to break his phone in half, but he knows that this is Jacob’s form of an apology. He’d never say the words, would never apologize for something he believed didn’t warrant an apology, because he and John know that John wasn’t the intended target of the trial. 

Had John listened to him, left before he’d wandered-in too deep, waiting for the trial to be over, Rook would’ve finished without a hitch. 

Then again, had he not, who knows how much farther she would’ve fallen into the depths of that Pavlovian hell...

•

Given how she doesn’t so much as twitch or wince during the drive - limp, bloodied and bruised in his lap - John can’t shake the horrifying idea that he isn’t cradling his sweet deputy, but a lifeless corpse instead.

His fingers scramble for the pulse tucked beneath her jaw, and tears of sweet relief slip down his cheeks at the beat - unassuming and thready but there. His finger don’t leave her neck for the whole drive, needing this assurance that she was alive more than he needed air.

With his opposite hand, John combs his fingers through her hair, gently unravels her gnarled, bloodied locks, murmurs quiet nothings in her ear, pleads for her to wake up.

She’s taken care of him, when everyone in the county salivated at the prospect of crucifying him to a billboard - numerous billboards, every single last billboard, a piece of him nailed to each and every one - but not after they tortured him to the brink of death and bled him dry.

The people of Holland Valley are incredibly vocal and enthusiastic whensilos are blown to high heaven, outposts liberated and returned to their former establishments (fortified like fucking militant castles), their strongest residents rising up when one tenacious deputy reached a hand out to ease them off the dirt and into the battlefield.

•

By the time they reach his ranch, she hasn’t so much as twitched. 

He takes her into the bathroom, fills the tub with hot water - not to burn, but to soothe - strips her of her tattered clothes and eases her in.

Unlike the baths they’ve shared before, he kneels outside of the tub, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow, his hands never leaving her as if he’s terrified she’d slip through his fingers.

Again.

First, he takes care of her hair. Washing out the blood, mud and grime caked in the strands. Empties the tub of the dirty water, refills it with clean, hot water. 

She doesn’t stir until he’s trying to clean the dirt that’s embroidered in her skin, so deeply that he thinks she’ll need at least three more baths to get it out.

“... John?” 

“I’m right here, darling. I’m right here.” 

“What... How...” 

Her voice cracks, disuse and thirst rendering it to little more than a hoarse, strangled echo.

“I brought you back. We’re back  home.”

“No... No, John you need to leave. I need to leave. Right fucking now.” 

“What?“

Rook shakes her head, sharp and refusing, unabashed by her naked state, her bones shifting and joints scraping as she clambers out of the bathtub, unabashed by her naked state, nearly crumbles to the ground from a combination of malnutrition, dehydration and wet-fucking-tiles, but John doesn’t let her get far.

“Where do you think you’re going?” John hisses, lunging after her retreating form with the speed of a viper, tattooed fingers boring into her bony shoulders, refusing to let her budge a single inch more.

The touch is fruitless. Despite the lack of meat on her bones and the fact that all she’d been doing for weeks is running, hunting, culling - the strength in her bones hasn’t diminished, so she’s able to tear herself out of John’s touch without much difficulty. 

This simply makes him bear down harder, hands shifting into claws, nails sinking into her skin, hooking through the gaps of bone from the lack of muscle, effectively holding her steady.

There’s nothing more that John wants than to be gentle with her - he’d never been particularly enthusiastic about Jacob’s methods, as much as he loved his eldest brother, and given what scarce bits of information Jacob shared from his time in service, John understands where his Darwinistic philosophy stems from, why he’s doing what he is - but if she refuses to listen to the voice of reason, to the voice that’s keeping her away from that forsaken fucking hell under the guise of a veteran’s center. he’ll kiss away the finger-shaped bruises painting her arms and shoulders as a silent apology later.

“John, stay away from me.”

The voice that drips from Rook’s lips is not hers - the playful, teasing, salacious tone that captivated John when they met all those weeks ago at the river, that didn’t waver under the effects of gallons of Bliss (when he’d nearly drowned her, but they don’t have to focus on that particular detail), that buckled his knees when she asked,  “You get everyone this wet on the first date, handsome?”

This voice is cold, detached and John’s blood freezes at the lifeless inflection in her words.

For fuck’s sake, the voices of those artificial intelligences, Siri and Alexa, held more enthusiasm -  humanity \- than Rook’s. 

“What are you talking about?” John asks, fear bludgeoning his chest with every beat of his heart, but his terror is nothing compared to the horror gleaming in Rook’s amber eyes.

“John... It’s you.  Only you.  I thought... This whole time, I thought Jacob was grooming me to kill Eli. Pratt said as much before this last trial, where he was able to get me out of the center by hurling me over the side of a building and onto a supply truck. But this trial... John,  it was you.”

“Darling, no - you don’t understand—”

“John, I’ve been killing people - good, innocent people - for weeks. Jacob’s Social Darwinism is something I can get behind, I’ll admit it. The world’s overpopulated and there are too many weak links that need to be severed before they bring the rest of us down. But you aren’t one of them. You... He... The faces in the trials are always blank, empty, unrecognizable. But this time around, when I got to the last room, salivating for the last kill... It was you. It was so clearly you that my fucking heart stopped.” 

Tears roll down her cheeks, her shoulders trembling, her hands shaking.

“D-darling?”

Panic takes hold of him, gripping him by the throat, breathing becoming a difficult task to see her - his happy-go-lucky, easygoing, charismatic deputy - in this state.

“Rook, why are you crying?”

“Can’t... I can’t...” 

Rook shakes her head, hands clamped over her ears, that fucking song ringing in her skull like a deadly, damning lullaby, and she’sdesperately trying to claw it out.

John rests his hands above hers, pale, tattooed fingers against olive-toned skin, slowly and tenderly moving them away from the sides of her head, bringing them to his chest, massaging the feeling back into the stark white digits right above his heart.

“Can’t what?“ 

Swallowing thickly, Rook stares at their laced fingers, eyes red-rimmed and body trembling, but the words that leave her mouth are steadfast, resolute,  strong.

“I can’t lose you, John.”

Of all the answers John’d been expecting, that certainly wasn’t amongst them, would’ve had him scratching the back of his head or rubbing his beard in thoughtful confusion, but is unable to do so because he won’t be letting go of Rook for the next two or three weeks.

Possibly five or six, but they can discuss the semantics later.

“What?”

Staring down at the slippery tiled floor, Rook inhales a shaky breath, like whatever she’s going to say has been bottled-up for so long that the moment she’s finished, her lungs would collapse from the sudden release.

“I’ve lost a lot of people, John... One person that I loved more than anything. When he died, I... I was right behind him, not only ready to eat a bullet but craving it like a fucking drug. But... But he left a note before he offed himself, asking me to live for him - for both of us - to find the good in the world... Ten years down the drain, and I‘m convinced that it doesn’t exist... That I’d be seeing him sooner than he thought, that if there was an afterlife, I’d be getting an earful, but at least I’d have the only good thing in my life back. Even if it was in death. But then... Then I found you.”

“I can’t... I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose the person that makes life worth living. There’s only so much a person can take before they shatter.”

“Rook...”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, John. I’ll die before anyone touches you. As long as there’s breath in me, I will protect you with everything that I am.  I love you, too.”

John’s breath hitches in his chest - only to cough, stumble and stop dead in his throat not two seconds later. 

Love.

She loved him.

Rook loved him .

The three weeks she’d spent taking care of him after his plane crashed weren’t out of lust (though the sin was tattooed below his navel, around hers like a belt of ink), they were out of  love.

Rook’s out of breath - the explanation of the trials, the glimpse into her history, the confession of her feelings for him - but John doesn’t need to hear one more word.

He hoists her up onto the bathroom counter - given how harshly she was trembling, it was only a matter of seconds before her legs crumbled beneath her from the lack of strength in her muscles and bones - and kisses her, pouring every ounce of emotion he’d been lurching between these last six agonizing weeks.

“I love you. I love you so much. God, Rook - you don’t know how fucking petrified I was when you stopped answering your phone, when I found you in that fucking trial room, looking like a skeleton with skin and blood painted on, when you collapsed so abruptly when that fucking song stopped that  I thought you’d died in my arms.”

“Oh, baby...”  Rook whispers against his lips, threading her fingers through his hair, in that way that shivers slither down his spine, his stomach leaps into his throat and he feels safer than he has in over two decades.

“Don’t leave me. Not again. Losing that person who meant so much to you... I can only imagine what that was like, because praise be to God above, you came back to me. But if I lost you... If I really, truly lost you... I’d be right behind you.”

“John, no—“

“This isn’t a matter of discussion. This is a matter of fact. You are my redemption, Rook. You are my savior, Rook. You... You are the love of my life.”

Rook was pale before, but when John confesses the secret he’s been harboring for weeks, her skin turns to ice.

Only for her to curl the bony fingers of one hand around the back of his neck and kiss him with every last bit of strength she has left.

“I have to go back, John,” Rook pants, their tongues tangling, tracing the forgotten caverns of each other’s mouths, intent and passionate.

“I’m almost done. I know what to— ah...” Rook hisses as John sinks his teeth into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, tongue laving over the puncture wounds, upset at himself for drawing more blood but absolutely delighted at the possessive mark that was blooming to the surface of her skin.

“You aren’t going anywhere near that fucking mountain again.” 

Rook raises a skeptical eyebrow, doesn’t hear that as a threat or a command but a challenge, mischief gleaming in her eyes at the different ways John would try to keep her here and the various ways she’d break out.

John reads all of this in a single look, squares his shoulders and tightens his jaw to prove that he is, indeed, serious. But when this simply induces a troublesome grin that he is oh-so-familiar with, John sighs, his head thunking to her shoulder and his arms coiling around her waist.

“... We’ll make a plan.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. You said you aren’t going to kill Jacob. Seeing as how Rachel and I are alive and well, I believe you. We’ll come-up with a plan that doesn’t end-up with you slaughtering your precious little militia and accidentally and/or purposefully slaughtering Jacob for the mental mindfuckery you’ve been subjected to for weeks... Though I have no qualms if you feel the need to knock his lights out for a minute or two. That’s something I’d pay to see.”

There’s a stagnant pause - one, two, three - before Rook bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach with the hand that wasn’t tangled in John’s hair, smothering her laughter against his throat. John, himself, is stifling a grin. 

Not just because the thought of Jacob and Rook engaging in a fist-fight of all things was playing in his mind and the mere idea of his giant of an oldest brother having his ass handed to him by the deputy who was about seven-inchesshorter than him, at least 80-pounds lighter (at her normal weight - right now, in this skeletal form, she was definitely 110 pounds lighter, no question about it) and one-hundred times more sarcastic, crude and offensive than Jacob (which is really saying something), but because this is the Rook he thought he’d lost when he found her in that room.

Her laughter is a symphony to his ears.

“Deal?” John asks, once Rook’s laughter has subsided, when she’s brushing tears of hysterical laughter out of her eyes, when the cadaverous figure that John had cradled starts acting like her true self again.

“Yeah... You got yourself a deal, baby.”

The pet name never fails to make John’s ears flare up, but he clears his throat to divert attention from them, sticks out a hand to make their deal official.

Rook shakes the proffered hand, a weary but winsome smile across her face as she does do, but before she lets go, she uses the hold to drag him closer, John stumbling forward, hands landing either side of her waist on the marble counter to catch himself, and groaning miserably because - in the midst of all this - he’d somehow forgotten that she was naked and he was not and that was a problem that needed a solution sooner rather than later.

“Seeing that you’re lively and lucid—” John starts, muffling a wanton moan by sinking his teeth into his bottom lip when she grinds her bare hips against his, his cock straining behind his jeans boxers— layers, why is he wearing so many fucking layers— retribution for biting her earlier as drops of blood ooze between them, “— what say we finish that bath together, hm?”

“Hm... I dunno.”

John visibly sags at this, curses himself internally because she’d just been through hell for the last six weeks, why couldn’t he think with the right head when the love of his life clearly needed a platonic bath and days of rest and proper meals—

“Think I’d get much cleaner in the shower, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stand for so long... Would it be too much trouble to ask if I could have a bit of— whoa!” 

Rook laughs, arms scrambling around John’s shoulders as he plucks her off the counter, marching to the shower like he’s on a mission from God. 

“This is giving me a mind-numbing case of deja vu. Only, I had to carry you piggy-back because you’re Gucci cloak was an extra 25-pounds... When did you get so strong?” Rook teases fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, shaky fingers able to perform the task dexterously - likely because they’ve done this more times than either of them can remember.

“When you were starved in a wild cage for six weeks,” John deadpans, opening the shower door with one hand - refusing to let go of her - fiddling with the water temperature as he kicks off his boots and, as elegantly as one can, yank off his socks with his toes.

He’s waiting to hear the laughter that he’s missed for weeks at this ridiculous action, but instead, he feels deliciously calloused fingertips tracing the lines and scars of his chest, delicately mapping out the terrain, only to stop when they brush against metal.

“Looks like you did took care of ‘em for me, huh?” Rook chuckles, something soft and tender in this sound that John’s knees buckle for the minutest of moments.

“I-I can put them back on you right now, I know how important they are to—“

Rook kisses him silent, tenderly pushing his shirt and vest from his shoulders, the pool of clothing accumulating as her sly fingers pop the button of his jeans and take their sweet time with the zipper, John all but whimpering against her mouth when the denim drops to the floor and she grinds her palm against the leaking bulge in his boxers.

“Keep ‘em. Look much better on you than they do me. Besides...“ Rook kisses his lips softly, the kiss where she tilts his head and slips her tongue in his mouth and makes him forget every word in the English language.

“The only important things I own deserve to be worn by the most important person in my life, don’t you think?”

John’s answer is a kiss that tears out of both of their lungs and a single tear rolling down his cheek, which Rook brushes away softly with a careful brush of her thumb.

Home.

His sweet girl is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Requested from the Angst/Fluff Prompt List.
> 
> 1\. “I love you. Please... Please don’t go.”
> 
> Apologies for how long this took, but also - holy shit, I can’t believe how long this turned out. Lol. For the lovely lass who requested, I hope you enjoyed, darling. ❤️


End file.
